


The Minor Fall, the Major Lift

by sylviarachel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, M/M, Sherlock's Violin, Three-Flat Problem, everyone has trust issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylviarachel/pseuds/sylviarachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a violin isn't just a violin. A Three-Flat Problem fic.</p><p>(A somewhat-sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1008373">Sociopath</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Minor Fall, the Major Lift

When John gets home, Sherlock’s asleep on the sofa with his violin still tucked under his chin. The fingers of his right hand are loosely curled around the fingerboard; his left arm hangs down from the sofa, and the bow has fallen out of his hand onto the carpet. John nearly treads on it before he notices, and picks it up with the feeling of having narrowly avoided an anti-personnel mine.

He twists the screw on the end of the bow to loosen the hairs, the way Sherlock does before putting the bow away (Sherlock may think he _doesn’t observe_ , but where Sherlock’s concerned John does pretty much nothing but), and pads across the lounge to lay it across Sherlock’s music-stand. Then he turns to look at his flatmate.

Sherlock’s definitely asleep, limbs slack, breathing slow and steady, and the position he’s in can’t be good for either his cervical spine or the violin. So John leans down and closes his fingers around the violin’s neck, just above the body, and starts to slide it out from under Sherlock’s chin.

But at the first minute shift Sherlock’s fingers clamp tight on the fingerboard and he comes abruptly upright, _snarling_.

John hastily steps back, arms up in a gesture of surrender.

Sherlock blinks; focuses his gaze on John. His face unsnarls, awakens.

 

“Oh,” Sherlock says. “John.”

“Sorry,” John says. “I just thought—”

“I thought you were— No.” Sherlock shakes his head, rubs his left hand through his hair. “No. Never mind. Not-- not important.”

Inarticulate Sherlock: generally, in John’s experience, cause for alarm.

Sherlock looks around, frowning. “I put away the bow,” John says. “It was on the carpet. It seemed safer.”

Sherlock looks at him.

“I’m sorry,” John says again. “Didn’t mean to wake you. You should sleep, you haven’t slept in ages. You just looked—”

“I didn’t realize it was _you_ ,” Sherlock says. “That’s why it woke me up.”

Then he holds the violin, his violin, out towards John.

After a moment, John steps forward and takes it, almost reverently. It feels like being handed someone’s newborn baby: easily dropped and broken, incalculably dear.

He crosses the room carefully, nestles the violin into its case. When he turns away, Sherlock’s horizontal again, curled up with his back to the room and his face to the wall.

John stands over the sofa, looking down. He can’t tell now whether Sherlock has actually gone back to sleep or is, for some unfathomable reason, shamming it.

“Thanks,” he says.

Sherlock doesn’t stir. Really sleeping?

“I,” John says, awkward. “That— I appreciate you trusting me.” Feeling idiotic, he adds, “I loosened the bow.”

 

Sherlock keeps sleeping (or shamming, whichever) and John goes into the kitchen and quietly brews tea, because more is going on here than meets the eye, and he needs some time and tea to try and work it out.

After a moment he decides some biscuits are in order, too, and levers open the biscuit tin.

John sits with his tea and biscuits, very deliberately not looking at Sherlock. Two biscuits in he makes the connection, and his stomach twists.

“You thought I was Mycroft,” he says softly, “taking your violin away to make you talk.”

There’s an alarming series of thumps and scuffles and suddenly Sherlock’s looming over him. “How did you know about that?” he demands. “How could you _possibly_ know about that?”

 _Stupid. Stupid_. “I’ve been trying to tell you,” John says miserably. “All this time. I know because Mycroft told me. I went to see him yesterday. He told me … all of it.”

Sherlock is quiet.

“Sherlock—”

“I _trusted_ you.”

John winces at the past tense. “Trust is hard,” he says. “You’ve got to keep on choosing it, every day.”

He looks up, lets the pain of the dead months show in his face.

And goes weak with relief when Sherlock flops down at his feet and says, “I’m _furious_. But _you_ are what I choose.”

**Author's Note:**

> Once again AO3 does not believe Word's word counts. I'm not sure what to believe :P


End file.
